Radius Solis
by Capucine
Summary: A soliloquy-type fic. After the fall of Voldemort, Harry's having trouble coming to terms with himself. Radius solis is Latin for ray of the sun, for those who wondered.


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Radius Solis

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Capucine

It's a time to celebrate, they said. A time to rejoice. It isn't the time to remember. The time to remember the recent sordid past and the lives lost at the hands of the Dark Lord, certainly, that time is not now. 

Even now, they couldn't say the name. 

Now is the time to look to the future, they said. Tomorrow, they assured him, tomorrow, we will remember. We will honor our dead. Tonight we give thanks for your victory. For our victory. For all of wizardkind.

But he didn't feel like celebrating. He didn't feel like smiling, didn't feel like laughing. Whatever they said, his victory wasn't glorious. It was what he had had to do, what he'd needed, for his sake and for the sake of the rest of the world, to do. It was killing, nonetheless. He hated killing. There's been enough killing, he thought wearily.

The questions were killing him, the constant pestering, the requests for a first-hand account of the final stand, an account told by Harry Potter himself. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to think about it. He wanted to simply... be. To exist. For once in his life, he only wanted to be.

He wanted to immerse his exhausted body in a hot bath, to scrub away the scars and the pain, to rid himself of his disgust, his horror, his fear of himself. He wanted to be a boy again, to feel young again. He had a right to that, at least, didn't he? He was seventeen, and he felt as if he was eighty. A hunched, pathetic shell of a man.

He slid away from the _Daily Prophet _reporters, the clamoring witches and wizards. He needed to get away, needed to be alone. 

He stood in the shadows, momentarily hidden from view. Indecision ate at him like a plague. He couldn't go home. The flat would be the first place the reporters would look for him. He could go to Ron's, but Ron and Hermione would want to know the details, although they would know enough not to say as much. The look would be in their eyes, the hunger for his story; he couldn't give them that. Not yet.

He made a choice and Apparated. The street was deserted, the lamps lit and lonely, casting light where there was nothing to cast light on. Everyone was busy at their parties and celebrations. 

He twisted the knob and stepped inside. No one used this house anymore. It hadn't been suitable for the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, not after Sirius's death. These days, the house had reverted to its most common state—empty and silent.

"What are you doing here?" snapped the old lady, glaring at him, haughty. "You're not supposed to be here. I thought you left, when my precious son died. He got what was coming to him. You're not welcome here."

Harry ignored her, letting her voice fall away until he trusted himself enough to hear her words.

"They'll come after you, you know," she shrieked. "They'll kill you for what you did to the Master! You won't be able stand up to all of us, little boy. We number more than you can imagine."

He swept past her, up the stairs. He paused at the top, turned and looked back. He knew this house well. He went into the bathroom and turned the taps; he sat on the floor and waited, letting the thoughts filter into his mind. 

All these years, since the time he'd first found out he was a wizard, and a wizard with a history, at that... all the time, he'd had a goal—simply to stay alive. More recently, since he'd been told about the prophecy, the goal had been changed into a mission: kill Voldemort. His chances for survival were shot, as far as the prophecy told, so he'd essentially been forced to abandon the goal in favor of the mission. 

Well, now he'd done it. Killed Voldemort. The mission was over, finished. So, fortunately or not, was the goal—finished, in a way.

So what to do now? What was his purpose in life? His purpose, as far as he could tell, had been to defeat Voldemort, and that was all there was.

What was a life without a purpose?

The bath was full, so he shut off the taps and stripped, leaving his clothes to litter the dusty floor. He stepped into the water and sank until the waves lapped at his chin. It was hot. Too hot. Steam rose and touched his face with sneaky, stroking fingers. He could feel every cell in his body protesting at the heat.

Good. Pain was something he knew. Pain was something he could deal with. 

He settled into the sensation and closed his eyes, letting his mind go numb. 

He didn't know how long he lay there, but when he came back from wherever he had been, the water was cold and his limbs were stiff. He refilled the tub and drifted away again...

...and then someone was shaking him, and a familiar voice tore at him; challenged the darkness he was drowning in, fought it, and triumphed. He opened his eyes.

"Harry," Lupin said. Then, realizing his charge was fully conscious, he handed the young man a towel and closed the bathroom door behind him.

Harry drew himself out of the water and wrapped the towel around his waist. There were clean clothes on the sink—Lupin must have left them. He dressed, ran his fingers through his damp hair, and opened the door.

He went downstairs, knowing that Lupin would be in the kitchen. The door was ajar, and he pushed it all the way open—

--and Lupin was there, his gray face tired, but he wasn't alone. They were all there. Dumbledore, McGonagall, Tonks, Mad-Eye Moody, Ron, Hermione, Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Charlie, Ginny, Mundungus, Arabella... they were seated around the table, and, with a surge of pain in his chest, he was reminded of the old days at Grimmauld Place. He pulled out a chair and sat down. 

They sat in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. The sun was rising, and the members of the Order turned and gazed out of the window, watching the rays creep over the street. 

In the dawn, the sky kindled and the clouds floated across the sky in a rosy haze. The rays of light entered the kitchen and arced around the room, bouncing off the floor and lighting the shadows.

The young sunlight found Harry's face and clung to him, and for the first time in a long time he felt its warmth, accepted the comfort it offered freely. He felt a rush of catharsis, and at long, long last, he allowed the healing process to take over.

"And so the night ends," said Dumbledore softly.


End file.
